The Poet
by Karissaaa
Summary: Henryk's recount of his experiences in Treblinka.
1. Chapter 1

They kept me alive. I was useful to them, so they kept me alive. I didn't have a choice. All I know was that every second of my time in Treblinka prolonged my agony. It killed every part of me. Literally, in the end.

They pulled me from the people leaping off the train. They shoved me backwards and held me away from my family. I watched my parents and sisters walk to their death. Back then, I had no idea what would face us when we were deported – although I had a pretty good guess. I had seen so many people perish at the hands of the Germans that I almost knew that the stories of labour camps with good working conditions were all lies. But I hoped. The whole population of the Ghetto hoped. That was what kept us sane.

* * *

Yitzchak had told me of the labour camps when he had arrested and tortured me. He spat that I would 'get what I deserved when I was sent to the East, to work'. Contrary to my usual opinions of whatever Yitzchak said, I believed him that time. I held on to the idea that at least when we were deported we would be kept together, alive. Working didn't matter, so long as we had a chance at life.

But that wasn't to be.

They killed them.

My family.

* * *

The last sight of Mama, Papa, Halina and Regina that I had was when they were being shoved away from the train. I watched them run away from the chlorine infested carriages, away from the platform, away from me. I yelled out to them – I knew it would do no good – but still, I shouted.

"Papa!" "Mama!" "Regina!" "Halina!"

I screamed and screamed, at the top of my voice. The Germans had to clamp a thick hairy hand over my mouth to shut me up. But still I went on, albeit muffled. I wished for my screams and yells to turn into warriors; the like that I had only read of in books. I wanted big, muscular soldiers to form an arc around me, and with a simple sweep, knock down the Germans pinning me back. Then I would be reunited with my family.

It was all a dream in my head, though. Just a dream. Now that I have had time to think about it in more depth, I know I could not have possibly contemplated all of that in the moment that I was split up from my family, but I know I did want something; anything to reunite me with them. After all, hadn't I sacrificed being chosen by the Germans in the Large Ghetto, to go to the Umschlagplatz, in order to be with them? I couldn't cope without them - that was the truth. My brother, Władek, went to Germany when he was 20, to study in the Academy of Arts in Berlin - and so he was able to be separated from our parents and sisters, and could live comfortably without them. But me? No, I was different. Lacking any talents like my parents' favourite son, the golden boy, I was never offered any opportunity to study anywhere apart from in Warsaw, where we lived, which turned me into a man unable to bear much separation from his family. That was why I could not ever bear to think about the possibility of losing them, forever.

But that was what happened.


	2. Chapter 2

The Germans dragged me away from the platform too, but in the opposite direction to my family. Eventually I stopped resisting them, and obediently walked to where they were taking me, not caring anymore; for each step I made took my family away from me to a greater extent, and once I had come to the conclusion that they were destined to die, I lost the ability to fight back. I couldn't care less about what the Germans did to me after that. I wish I had cared, though. I wish I had fought. Perhaps being shot by a German bullet would have spared me the unrelenting torture they put me through, in Treblinka. But I didn't do anything. Too caught up in the realisation that my family were going to perish, I didn't have time to consider a plan of attack. After that, it became too late.

I was shoved into a dark room and landed on my knees. Hoping for blows to knock me out and ease my pain, I didn't at first notice the other men surrounding me. I certainly didn't see the piles and piles of possessions scattered all over the room. But after my eyes had become adjusted to the light, I saw everything. I saw men pick up clothes and books and all sorts of belongings from the middle of the floor and throw them into different heaps, urgently, almost as if they were hurrying to complete the job in the quickest time; as if it were a competition. I heard nasty, angry German voices snarl at the men working, as if to urge them on; like coaches:

"SCHNELL, SCHNELL!"

After a few seconds, I felt hands at my back, shoving me to the ground, and then a displeased voice growled in my ear, dangerously quiet:

"Arbeit."

I understood. I had been taught German in my school when I was a child, and even though I had wanted to erase any connection with Germany and the awful people that had come from it, since the war had started, I was unable to delete my knowledge and understanding of simple phrases. And so, doing as I had been told, I started working.

* * *

'Do as you're told' had been Papa's stock command to me all my life, and now, finally, I became the compliant child he had wished for all those years ago. I let go of all resistance I may have still had stored inside of me, and I gave up, totally. I submitted myself to the command of the Germans who were at Treblinka. From that point on, they owned me. I was their prisoner.

* * *

My work, on that first day, lasted from the time I had arrived at Treblinka, around 8 in the evening, to 10 at night. I sorted hundreds of possessions, ranging from items such as toothbrushes and clothes, to medals which no longer radiated courage, and instead were simply…things. After a few minutes of sorting, that was how I treated every item I touched. They weren't miraculous finds. They weren't even objects people had once kept. They were only things. Just things. If I had let myself become attached to any of the items I sorted through, even if it had just been wondering who they had belonged to, I would have earned kicks and punches and other various forms of assault.

The Germans knew what I was thinking. They could see it within the deepness of my eyes; they could see the misty chasms of wonder and thought – and they knew exactly what was racing through my head. That was one of the first lessons I had learnt during my time in Treblinka. That Treblinka becomes one with me. I become one with it. And even though that thought makes me feel sick inside whenever I consider it, it was the truth. A year after my arrival at Treblinka, after I had been dead for some time, a man named Kurt Franz made up a song he taught to all the inmates there:

_Looking squarely ahead, brave and joyous, at the world._

_The squads march to work._

_All that matters to us now is Treblinka._

_It is our destiny._

_That's why we've become one with Treblinka in no time at all._

_We know only the word of our Commander._

_We know only obedience and duty._

_We want to serve, to go on serving until a little luck smiles on us again._

_Hurray!_

That was how I felt. That was what Treblinka made me feel. It was like a considerable amount of alcohol; eventually, it makes your thoughts totally different to what you usually think. It changes you. Like Treblinka changed me.


	3. Chapter 3

After the Germans told us to stop working, we were instructed to make out way outside, and then, heavily guarded, we were taken to a sandy square in between some of the buildings. As that was my night in Treblinka, I did not fully understand what was happening, and so I was taken roughly and shoved backwards in order to form a neat line with the other men who had been working with me. Some other people from different parts of the camp also assembled in the square, although I noticed a lack of women – I assumed this was due to men being seen as the stronger gender; physically, in terms of the work, and mentally. Certainly I knew from experience that Halina, Regina and Mama would never have coped as long as I did in Treblinka; they would have been too consumed with grief and horror to go on. Halina used to cry at anything – I remember a few years ago when she was 22, and I was reading a book that belonged to her. I was nearly at the final page, but she had come up to me and said that she wanted it back. I argued that I wanted to finish it, and so she had ran to Papa in tears, knowing he would take her side –although there was a possibility she was simply bluffing. I can also recall Mama walking down the street in the Ghetto, clenching her fists and gazing upwards at the sky, as if even the smallest of glances at the corpses scattered around her feet was enough to terrify her for life. Regina…she was different. She could cope with most situations she found herself in; horrible as they might be, because she was very level-headed and knew that, as the eldest daughter, she needed to be strong. In some ways, she was stronger than me. However, the day we were at the Umschlagplatz, I saw a definite change in her personality. She became dejected and lost in the bowels of her mind. Perhaps that was when she realised that the chances of her dying were incredibly high. Or maybe she knew that nothing else could be done, and she let go of all control. I will never know what her thoughts were.

* * *

Once everyone was lined up in the square, one barrel-shaped German called out names from a list he held at arm's length, in a way almost suggesting he did not want to come in contact with even any association of us. We were dirty pigs to him. After he had finished reading out all of the names, a German behind me shoved me forward violently, and I found myself face to face with the German holding the list. He smirked at me and spoke in a sickly-sweet voice, his eyebrows raised.

"So…who's this then? What's your name, Jew?"

I stared back at him blankly, my mouth dry. My brain must have run dry too, because I couldn't for the life of me recall what my name was. The only thing I could think of was how perfect the German's English was. It was tinged with slightly Germanic tones, but it was definitely English. It surprised me that someone could speak the language of the country they were fighting a war against.

The German scoffed at my silence and spoke again, looking me up and down as if to assess how long I would last.

"What? Cat got your tongue?"

The Germans around me sniggered. I raised my eyes to the German who had spoken to me, teeth gritted. Something from before the war came back to me then. I didn't realise what it was at first, but later I realised it must have been anger. I stared straight into the German's bright blue eyes, not blinking, and I studied him. He had a pasty face and his small eyes looked full of simply evil. I realised there was probably no good bone in his body. I took and deep breath and spoke swiftly, letting my name glide off my tongue and into his ear with a hint of defiance.

"Henryk Szpilman."

"Huh. Typical Jewish name. Szpilman." The German scribbled my surname down and then shoved me backwards with his hand on my chest, so I ended up on the floor. He then saluted a Heil Hitler, and marched off further down the line. Two other prisoners either side of me bent down and hauled me upwards, where I brushed the sand and dirt away from my clothes with my hand. I wanted to brush and brush until I simply faded away and disappeared from Treblinka. As my hand glided across my clothes, I muttered a thank you to the men who had helped me up, but I was replied with a kick to the back of my knee from the German standing behind me. And that wasn't the only punishment that night.

Two men were hauled out of the line we stood in, and were brought to the middle of the square by shoves and kicks. What happened next was like watching a horror story unfold before my eyes. The men, both who looked younger than me, were shaking with fear as the German who had spoken to me stood in front of them, and told us how they would serve to show us what happened when prisoners tried to escape from within Treblinka. Cheeks swelling with rage, he then called over two SS-Oberschütze, and whispered to them what he wanted to be done to the prisoners. The Oberschütze obliged and quickly went around behind the prisoners, pointing their guns at their chests. In a split second, they had fired. I presumed the prisoners would die instantly, but when I heard screaming, I realised they were _still alive._ The Oberschütze had fired just below their hearts. I watched as the prisoners fell to the ground and writhed in agony, blood pouring out of their innocent bodies. To add insult to injury, the Oberschütze then leapt on top of the prisoners and began beating them with wooden truncheons, until they became lifeless and still. As soon as their deed was done, the Oberschütze pushed themselves up from the bodies and glared at us, mercilessly.

* * *

That was my first witnessing of proper punishment in Treblinka. In the days that I was there, they punished me in various ways publicly too, but I was never taken and shot, presumably because I never attempted to escape. I knew it would be hopeless to try. They'd catch me, and then I'd pay. I couldn't let that happen. I didn't want to be in Treblinka, as every day I woke up alive was the worst torture, but I didn't want to die for the simple reason that I had heard that Władek had escaped from the train deporting us, and I hoped to be reunited with him as soon as the war was over. That was the only thing keeping me alive. If Władek had been sent to his death too, I'm sure I would have attempted suicide. Many men did, whilst I was there. Destroyed by grief and unable to bear the squalid working conditions, they would take their belts, tie them to the lights in our barracks, and hang themselves. I saw it happen.


	4. Chapter 4

They say, when your parents die, you feel something. Even if it is just a little movement deep inside your heart, something tells you that your mother and father are no longer amongst the living. But I can honestly say that even when I was lying on a hard, wooden plank-bed in the barracks of Treblinka, when I was so certain that my parents must have died before then, I did not feel any different. I felt numb, yes, and broken entirely – but I felt no strange sensation that was unlike anything I'd felt before. Perhaps that was due to me feeling like a living ghost, almost as if I was already dead at heart – and so I was unable to experience anything dissimilar to what I usually felt.

* * *

The Germans had given us dinner. They were reluctant to give me mine, as I had only done 2 hours' work, but still they passed me a bowl of lukewarm, thin soup. It looked like water. Water with a few bits of mouldy, old vegetables floating on the top. I should have been thankful, though. There were nights when us prisoners had failed the Germans so much that they did not give us any food, and instead just sent us straight to our beds. _Like Papa used to do to me. _But instead of being grateful for the soup, I must have looked disgusted, as one prisoner near me nudged me on the arm and hissed in my ear:

"Enjoy it."

I turned to the person who had spoken. He had two black eyes, and his face was streaked with mud. He was gulping down the soup like it was the last meal he'd ever eat. I watched him shove the tepid liquid into his mouth, and swallow it quickly, and then take another spoonful. I presumed he had been in Treblinka for quite a long time, from the faded bruises down his neck. I opened my mouth to say something back to him, but stopped myself at the last second. What was the point in talking to people, in this place? We'd probably all be dead in a week.

* * *

After we had all eaten our soup, one SS-Sturmscharführer stepped before us. Glaring at every one of the prisoners, his eyes lingering on me for a moment because I was new, he spoke swiftly, again in English:

"You will be given 5 minutes to go to the latrines. Then get into your bunks. Those who are new-" he glared at me, "will be assigned beds by the barrack elder."

Immediately, several prisoners barged past me to run outside and use the latrines. I placed my bowl down on the small wooden table we had been served soup on, and slowly walked to join the group of men standing to wait to enter the latrine. I didn't rush, though. I couldn't care less if I didn't get to go. It didn't bother me. Maybe, a few years ago, I would have used my fists to push away the men standing in front of me, so I could get in - but not anymore. It wasn't just a matter of being physically exhausted and lacking of energy either. I was mentally tired. Just too tired.

* * *

After I had been to the toilet, washed my face and hands with freezing cold water, and returned to the barracks, the barrack elder walked up to me, and looked me up and down like the German had, to assess me. It was unnerving. He seemed to sense my angst, because he broke into deep laughter as soon as he became level with me.

"You won't last long." His statement completely caught me off guard. I wanted to die so much, as I could not bear it in Treblinka, but somehow the truth of actually dying hadn't sunk in for me yet. Up until then, I hadn't realised that if I died, it would actually be the end of my life. I would no longer write, I would no longer read, and I would no longer form ideas in my head. The whole of me would just…be gone. I would be nothing.

I glanced back up at the barrack elder, who smiled sarcastically at me. I had once been able to do that. And I had too, mostly at my brother, Władek, when I was annoyed with him. But in Treblinka, I found I could no longer smile. Everything was slowing ebbing away from my life, until there was nothing left, and I would disappear.

I snapped out of my reverie to notice the barrack elder point at one top bunk, a few feet away from me. I nodded to show my understanding, and walked slowly up to it, noticing the other prisoners around me tucking themselves into their beds by pulling a rather thin sheet over their clothes. There were no pyjamas or any different types of clothes in Treblinka. We wore what we had worn when we arrived. No changes.

* * *

Gently, I grasped the wooden bottom of the bunk I was supposed to sleep on, and I pulled myself up onto it. As I kicked my legs in order to find something to stand on to help me get onto my bunk, my mind instantly flashed back to the barracks I live in with my family in the large ghetto, in which I was in a very similar predicament. There were bunks there too. And I, being the younger son, was forced to sleep on the top one. Władek had argued with me, saying it would be better if I slept in the bottom one, and he the top, but I had shoved his pleas away with one hand, and focused all my attention onto conquering the height between me and the bunk. Eventually I had found that by putting my feet on his bunk below me, and jumping, I could reach the heights of the one above. But unfortunately, in Treblinka, due to the fact that there was a stranger already asleep in the bunk below me, I had nothing to stand on, so I simply had to pull myself up to my bunk by holding on as far as I could reach across it.

* * *

When I had pulled my sheet over me, I snuggled down underneath it. I was lying on wood. Other men had put the sheet below them, and covered themselves with their blazers or jumpers, but I wanted the sheet over me. It went over my whole body, and, despite being thin, did warm me up a little. I was freezing. I wondered why, considering it was August, but then I realised that the barracks would never become warm because they were shadowed by all the other buildings surrounding them. We would always be cold here.

As I began to fall asleep, I shifted my position on the bed, so that I was on my side. As I moved, I recalled a memory I thought I had forgotten. It was of my childhood. I was around 13 or 14, and I had woken up with a pounding headache and a very high temperature. My whole body felt sore. I remember glancing at the clock on my bedside table, and realising it was 11am, which was way later than when I usually woke up. My mother must have thought this too, as she knocked on my door a few second later, and called out to me.

"Henryk?"

I managed a groan in response, and she quickly opened the door, gasping at my ill state. I must have looked a mess. I opened my eyes half-wide at her, and groaned again. I hurt too much to be able to talk properly. She quickly rushed off into another room, but returned a few minutes later carrying a thermometer, which she shoved into my mouth. She then left my room again for around 5 minutes, and came back with a bowl of cold water and a flannel. Taking the thermometer out of my mouth and frowning at the number it showed, she then dunked the flannel in the water until it was totally submerged, before placing it on my forehead. I shuddered at the coldness of it, and let the water run down my face and drip into my eyes.

"I'm sorry," my mother murmured, brushing the water away from my eyes so I could look at her. I watched as she drew circles with the flannel on my forehead, and then dunked it back in the icy water when it had warmed again. She continued to soothe me like this for half an hour, until I fell back into my sleep.

When I awoke again, I was feeling in much better spirits. My mother was sitting in a chair by my bed, smiling, with a tray holding a plate of thick soup and a glass of water on her lap. With her help, I sat up, and pulled the tray across my knees, letting the warm steam from the bowl drift up into my face.

"You were asleep for three days!" I glanced up at my mother again and she chuckled at the surprised look on my face. I wondered how I could have possibly survived for three days without any food or water, and then I suddenly realised how very hungry I was. I tried to pick up the spoon that was in the bowl by myself, but dropped it after 1 second of holding it. My hands were shaking profusely. Gently, my mother picked up the spoon and whispered to me.

"Here, let me help you."

I sighed, realising how virtually helpless I had become, and then nodded. My mother smiled at my answer, and guided the spoon into my mouth, waiting for me to swallow before she took the next spoonful of soup to me. With her help, I finished the whole bowl in 5 minutes.

"Good, well done, Henryk." She smiled again at me, and then walked out of my bedroom, taking the tray with her. In a second, I was transported back to Treblinka, and onto my uncomfortable, wooden plank bed. I pulled the sheet more tightly around me, and sighed. But it wasn't a sigh of reluctance, or even submission. I sighed of happiness. I fell asleep smiling on my first night in Treblinka, with happy memories of my childhood whirling through my head.


End file.
